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The Parentations

Page 14

by Kate Mayfield


  Her husband has recently refilled the great, bulbous show globes with his mercurial solutions. Shaped like giant eggs, they hang from brass chains emitting their chemical glow. One displays the colour of a dark, glistening emerald, the other is filled with deep-red liquid, as rich in hue as a claret. There can be no better announcement, and few newcomers to the neighbourhood would doubt that Mockett’s Apothecary is a modern and fully stocked establishment.

  With finger to her chin, Mrs Mockett contemplates adding one or two potion bottles, or perhaps a collection of blue-and-white Faience novelties to tempt the ladies. She is stirred from her musings when she spots in the distance what is possibly the figure of Clovis Fowler and that of her servant, the odd young girl with the restless eyes – though her own eyes may be deceiving her. Nora strains and squints with a distance vision that is annoyingly blurred.

  It is very simple. Nora Mockett does not trust Mrs Fowler. More than that, she loses her focus in the young woman’s presence. She cannot think what to say, or what to do, and her hard-won confidence evaporates like the smoke of her husband’s experiments. She fumbles with the door, rattles it, pounds on it until Owen Mockett comes running to help her.

  ‘What is it?’ He is just a bit impatient.

  ‘The door sticks, tell the boy to repair it. We mustn’t fall, Owen. We mustn’t fall. And Clovis Fowler walks this way. There is something strange in her appearance.’

  ‘All right, all right. Do calm yourself.’

  Nora tidies the rows of opium pills she had helped prepare earlier this morning for the Saturday evening crowds who will lay down their money and receive the boxes without uttering a word. It really is a miracle cure for all the most common ailments. And oh heavens – the profit.

  The shop’s porcelain jars and glass bottles are completely free of dust, yet while Mrs Mockett waits for Mrs Fowler to arrive she runs a cloth down a line of vessels with nervous anticipation. Nora recalls her father’s prejudices of ginger-haired people, especially women. His belief that the reds possess character faults was biblical. ‘Poison,’ he’d said.

  When the door finally opens and Clovis Fowler enters the apothecary, Nora understands why Mrs Fowler’s figure appeared foreign from a distance. She digs her nails into her fists. Faced once again with what she has been denied, she will remember this day and the precise hour when her path turns sour and wrong, when what begins as a small, hurtful jealousy grows into an appalling cancer. Poison.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Fowler.’ Nora composes herself even as the words stick in her throat.

  Upon witnessing the utter surprise on Nora Mockett’s face, it is not difficult for Clovis to summon the contented smile of a luxuriating cat.

  The condition that must be concealed as long as possible has been visited upon Mrs Fowler. Nora quickly calculates that Clovis must be at least six months gone, for no woman could be absolutely certain for the first five months. This she knows too well. How brazen of the Fowler woman to appear in public like this. Whatever can she be thinking? This is it you see, Nora thinks, this is where the foreigner in her comes to the fore. Uncouth.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Mockett.’ Clovis makes no further effort at conversation, but instead waits to be served.

  ‘How may I help you today?’ Nora manages.

  ‘Ah. Well. You may very well ask!’ Another smile. ‘I will require several items before The Little Stranger arrives.’ She beams.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Nora manages to spit out; mortified that Mrs Fowler would actually mention her condition in public. Perhaps Mrs Fowler will even pat her bump!

  ‘I believe you’ve met Willa, my girl. She will collect whatever I need for the next few months and I’m sure you and Mr Mockett will accommodate her. Mr Fowler will see to the payments. After all, our husbands share business concerns.’

  At that remark Nora flushes from head to toe and a deep anger begins to brew within her. Whatever business occurs in the damp dark of their cellar, how dare this woman speak of it in the company of their customers. How careless of her. The assistant and the patrons shoot questionable looks towards them now.

  Mr Mockett intercedes at just the right moment.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Fowler. How lovely to see you. Do not worry yourself with anything at all. How happy both Mrs Mockett and I are for you and Mr Fowler. We wish you great joy. Isn’t that right, dear?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes of course,’ Nora replies.

  ‘May I offer you a chair, Mrs Fowler?’ he asks.

  Clovis turns her complete attention to Mr Mockett in the way that makes a man feel as if only he exists – even though his wife stands shoulder to shoulder with him.

  ‘You are too kind. No, thank you. I won’t stay long. You have met my girl, Mr Mockett? I was just informing Mrs Mockett that …’

  A sharp breeze accosts the apothecary when the door creaks open again. Two women stand together Anubis-like in their mourning dress. The shop fills with the clanging of the Five Bells public house from Three Colt Street, as if to herald the sisters’ entrance. Beginning at half past two in the afternoon, five times the bells toll to announce the afternoon’s closing of the docks.

  The fragrant odour of the botanicals and drying herbs of the apothecary fades against the overpowering incense that clings to the sisters’ crepe clothing. They lift their skirts to climb the step into the shop revealing their grievous silk petticoats and plain black stockings. They are swathed in the black of the dead, a lustreless, sombre and depressing black. Their gloved hands grasp parasols of inky chiffon. Their faces cannot be distinguished behind their veiled hats, with the exception of the blue-tinted spectacles Verity wears that are intimidating and quite unnerving.

  The fourth bell clangs.

  No one moves or speaks; the ghostly sight strikes even Clovis mute. Willa retreats to a corner unsure what kind of protection she may need from these apparitions. Constance and Verity seem to have drawn all the air from the room. When they advance further into the shop towards the counter, row upon row of jet bead necklaces shimmer around their necks, crunching whenever the sisters move. Mrs Mockett dashes over to them and relieves them of their parasols. The sisters appear very grand in a way they do not intend.

  The tone of the fifth bell fades.

  Owen Mockett comes to his senses and silently blesses his wife for insisting he change into a clean shirt after staining his first one at dinner. Surprised to see the sisters, he assumes they must be out of ‘retirement’ from the world and able to return to society in a limited way. He’s been administering to them at their home regularly for over a year following the death of Mr Lawless. They have not been well. No, not at all. In fact, though there is no hint of it today, during their retirement he had never seen them quite so … vulnerable. And possibly, just slightly, unhinged.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Constance’s bell-sleeve droops down, like a bird with an exceedingly wide wingspread, as she raises her arm and points at the shelves of medicinal glass bottles.

  ‘The last remedy was not as effective, Mr Mockett.’ Her voice is hoarse, her delivery, deliberate. A wisp of her silvery-white hair floats with her breath, trapped as it is under her veil.

  No, indeed it was not. Owen has been carefully monitoring Constance Fitzgerald who was without a doubt completely and wholly dependent. He hates to admit that he is not entirely without blame. It happened slowly over the past year, drop-by-drop. Each fortnight he had increased the strength of the formula. She requested, ‘Stronger, more potent, please, Mr Mockett.’ However, there is, for the first time since the drug gushed through the sluices of the country, some concern about opium and its effects. So Mockett politely refused her, a precaution he felt he must take for her sake, and because the eyes and ears of the Society of Apothecaries whose jurisdiction he is under are everywhere.

  But Constance had sought another source. She was introduced to a rent-collector who was connected with a burying club. She had a bad reaction when she chewed a raw form of Turkish that blistered her
mouth. An unforgiving case of pruritus claimed her so severely that she scratched holes in her body. Worse than all that, the opiate sleep upon which she relied, that always came like a soothing, red blanket, eluded her.

  By the time she called upon Mr Mockett again for help, her fingers and mouth had acquired a blue tinge. She looked as if she had aged twenty years and her blistered gums were beginning to deteriorate. Mockett was alarmed at how quickly she had descended into what was sure to be a poisoned death.

  Constance was anxious to conquer her dependency and he was anxious to help her by devising a plan for a slow progression of withdrawal. Mr Mockett notices with relief that the tinge of blue at her fingertips is paler than it was the previous month, which is evidence that she is not waning and no longer as miserable a slave to the sleeping draught as she has been.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Fitzgerald and good day to you, Mrs Fitzgerald.’ Mockett nods to the sisters.

  Verity, whose attention has been drawn to the leech pots, turns to face him. Her nod is so slight that he thinks perhaps he has missed the acknowledgement. He feels as awkward in her presence here as he does in her own home simply because she refuses to speak unless absolutely necessary. He makes an effort to decipher her needs. Their father’s death has hit them harder than he imagined.

  ‘Would you like me to examine your eyes, Mrs Fitzgerald?’

  No, she indicates by slowly moving her head.

  ‘Then, would you like more ointment and another bottle of solution?’

  Yes, she nods, that is what she requires.

  Clovis has been watching and waiting for the opportunity to address the sisters. She glides over quietly, positioning herself between them. Captured by surprise they turn to her, and because they are both two important inches taller than Clovis, they look down on her with a united and protected force.

  It is a thing to witness: Clovis Fowler caught slightly off her guard. She is not intimidated, yet their combined presence forces her to take a step back.

  ‘My deepest condolences and regret for your loss.’

  The sisters in one united movement turn further to glare at this creature. Verity’s brow furrows as she thoroughly inspects the woman who has the impudence to address them and the further effrontery to refer to their ‘loss’.

  Verity detaches a steel pin with a dull, black head that secures her veil onto her hat. The gauze unwinds and falls into a soft ring around her neck. She removes her spectacles oblivious to the theatrics she creates and blatantly stares for a long moment at the swell in Clovis’s skirts. Slowly she raises her naked eyes to the face of the Fowler woman who has held her nerve at the scrutiny until now. But when their eyes meet, Clovis falls short and looks away. Verity’s pink lids, both upper and lower, appear as raw as a rare piece of meat. The inflammation and redness make the young beauty’s eyes stream. But there is more – Clovis did not expect to see the hint of the madness of grief that stared back at her.

  Verity retreats behind her spectacles once more. She throws the veil up and winds it round and round her hat and sticks the black-headed pin into place. Customers are beginning to spill into the shop now. Mr Mockett discreetly beckons the sisters to his corner table.

  ‘Mrs Fitzgerald.’ He addresses Constance. ‘I have your bottle ready. The mixture is correct.’ He gives her a stern voice and look to go with it.

  Now he speaks to Verity. ‘I have made these lozenges for you.’ He opens a small box filled with flat coin-like tablets with the Mockett stamp embossed on each one.

  ‘These are made with a mild concoction that is most effective in this form. They are light and easy to carry. To use one, crush it and mix it with a liquid – distilled water is best – and then apply it to your eyelids like a salve. You must only do this in the evening before retiring.’ Because there are 4 drams of opium in this batch, he thinks, but doesn’t say. The drug seems to have no effect on the younger sister. She scratches her eyes at night when she is unaware of this world and lost to another. He struggles and will be damned until he devises a potent formula.

  ‘I wonder, Mrs Fitzgerald, why your eyes seem to be troubling you more than usual.’

  Verity turns to Constance who offers an almost imperceptible nod.

  ‘We are learning to swim, Mr Mockett.’ She says.

  A glass bottle crashes to the floor and explodes into crystal shards. Nora has dropped it spectacularly.

  The assistant scrambles at once to sweep up and no one knows quite what to say, so uncomfortable are they all with the thought of the sisters submerged. Only Clovis looks slightly confused and much amused.

  ‘Mr Mockett.’ Constance nods. ‘Mrs Mockett. Gloved and veiled once more, jet beads glistening and striking against each other, she makes for the door.

  Verity adjusts her spectacles and follows, with the Mocketts fussing along behind them.

  Clovis has positioned herself at the door and takes this opportunity to offer an unctuous farewell.

  ‘Perhaps we will meet again soon. I wish you both a good day.’

  Constance pauses at the door without turning to the woman who insists on making her presence felt.

  ‘Take great care of your child, Mrs Fowler. The world can be a cruel place.’

  Verity sniffs as if accosted by an unwelcome odour.

  Willa steps out of the corner where she has made herself small. She is drawn to the window where she hopes to catch a last glance of the sisters. She feels remarkably calm and though it makes no sense to her, she feels the moment of peace was due to them. How inexplicably sad she is to see them go.

  One by one Mockett’s customers conclude their business and a lull falls on the apothecary, yet Clovis lingers.

  ‘The Fitzgerald sisters. A strange pair, wouldn’t you say?’ she probes.

  ‘Those women. They have lost too much.’ Nora replies.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I was but twelve years old …’ Owen begins.

  ‘Mr Mockett, this really isn’t the time …’ Nora says.

  ‘What does it matter? It’s no secret. It was well reported in the London papers. Please do sit yourself down, Mrs Fowler.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Mockett. I am beginning to feel a bit fatigued and heavy and would like to rest before I leave. Please do continue.’ Warm smile.

  Perhaps she’d like to tell us how many months gone she is, or what her belly looks like unclothed! Nora thinks, feeling a headache approaching from grinding her teeth.

  ‘It was thirty years ago. I was twelve years old,’ he begins again. ‘The first freeze of the winter brought us all out of our homes on the Sunday. The day before, the news was that the Serpentine was frozen. So from all corners of London, the young and the old, we all made our way to Hyde Park; the wealthy to parade their winter finery and the poor to get warm by the big fires. I went to skate …’

  Nora produces a tray bearing tea, which brings an approving glance from her husband.

  ‘My father and I joined hundreds, perhaps even thousands of others. I don’t think we have experienced a big freeze since you’ve arrived in our city, Mrs Fowler. They are not as frequent or severe as those in your country, I dare say. For us, it was exciting until suddenly in the middle of the afternoon at the height of the numbers there was an awful roar. And the shout of ‘men down, men down’ had us all rushing to the shore for safety. From there, my father and I strained to witness the terrible sight of two men and two young boys flailing in the water where a large section of the ice had given way. The boys went under immediately. It looked as if the men, their fathers we assumed, were under the ice, too, but their heads popped back up for air – they were diving to find the boys.’

  ‘Bystanders went to fetch ropes and the Royal Humane Society men raced across the lake in their flat-bottomed tub. The two fathers went under a second time, but emerged again shaking the ice and water from their hair and gasping, and now seized in panic. That is when we recognized the men – the Fitzgeralds. They dived under for a third t
ime, but this time did not come up again.’

  Nora dabs her eyes with her handkerchief. Her soft sighs accompany her husband’s story.

  ‘The Society men finally reached the location but more of the ice began to give way. It just wasn’t safe enough, even with ropes tied around their waists. The sisters Fitzgerald had been in the Cheesecake House. It was their custom to retreat for a short while to the cake house after watching their husbands and their little lads skate. When my father spotted them walking over the footbridge he knew they did not yet know. He grabbed me and we pulled off our skates and ran towards the sisters with our shoes unlaced. You see, my father knew the Fitzgeralds quite well – we enjoyed their custom, and he once employed the men for legal advice.’

  ‘Was there no further attempt to find them?’ Clovis asks.

  ‘That night there was a hard frost, and by morning the ice was as firm as brass. They searched the following spring. But there are mud deposits on the bottom … The sisters’ husbands and their sons had disappeared.’

  Another whip of wind gusts through the door again and a young sea captain enters followed by one of the mutes from the undertaker’s down the road. Clovis and the Mocketts are returned to the present by the captain’s complaint of a throbbing head and the mute’s purchase of a second box of opium pills.

  ‘Goodness! I thought the Fowler woman would stay the night!’ Nora says, as they put out the last lamps. ‘I have a bad taste in my mouth, Owen.’

  ‘Well, spit it out, Nora.’

  ‘Did you notice her reaction? How could a woman listen to such a tragic story and not be moved? I was afraid you were going to tell her about their mother, too!’

  ‘No.’ Owen says as he secures the locks. ‘You are right as usual, Nora. It is unnatural for a woman to remain untouched by such a tragedy. If I am honest, I grow more and more uncomfortable with the Fowlers and this tunnel business. The risks are too great.’

 

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